A Feather from the Hearth

I stepped down from the tin cup and walked the length of the mantelpiece toward the blackened brick flue. Trapped behind an old brass match safe, a mottled gray owl feather lay wedged in a dry mortar groove. I worked the quill loose with my fingertips, easing the delicate vane past the metal casing without snagging the barbs. Drawing the shaft through my thumb and forefinger, the interlocking barbs smoothed into a clean, silent wedge. It carries the stiffness of an outdoor wing, dry and sound. I tucked the shaft firmly beneath my leather belt, ready for whatever craft demands balanced fletching.